


folie à deux

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, White House era, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-23 20:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: The official story is that Tommy's on another trip for the President, something that requires a little more discretion, so his location is therefore undisclosed to anyone who doesn't need to know. The truth is a lot less glamorous: somewhere between South Korea and Japan, Tommy had contracted what the locals were callingdove disease.





	folie à deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikesomuch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikesomuch/gifts).



> a million thanks to m, m, a, g, and w for cheerleading, helping develop the initial concept, and looking over drafts for me. ♥

"So is it like — the fucking bird flu?" Jon asks, helping Tommy schlep his duffel bag into the living room.

"I was told you were briefed," Tommy says, trying to be stern but failing spectacularly. He's coming off an eight-day Asia trip with the President, the tail end of which had involved a lot of questions, discomfort, and quarantine at not one but three different airports before the CDC managed to file the right paperwork to extract him. At this point, he's not sure he's capable of sounding anything but tired.

"Kind of," Jon says, eyes tracking toward Tommy's shoulders, his back, where the wings are growing. Tommy can feel himself molting under his shirt, which is a weird and kind of frightening development. Mostly he's glad they aren't keeping him at a hospital, locked up in some medical ward. "They wanted me to start drafting something in case there was an outbreak, and since I already knew about the — you know — I told them to shack you up with me."

"You didn't have to," Tommy attempts, and Jon sends him a flat look.

"Sure I did," he says, easy. "It's better than whatever crappy hotel room they would've stuffed you in if I hadn't." He ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck, mouth curving into a sly grin. "As long as you clean up after yourself."

Tommy says, "Fuck off, you know I'm always clean. You're the one who always leaves beer bottles lying around instead of just taking out the damn trash," and laughs when Jon makes a face like he's conceding the point.

 

 

The official story is that Tommy's on another trip for the President, something that requires a little more discretion, so his location is therefore undisclosed to anyone who doesn't need to know. The truth is a lot less glamorous: somewhere between South Korea and Japan, Tommy had contracted what the locals were calling _dove disease_. The wings coming in at his shoulder blades are small enough right now that no one can really tell anything's going on when Tommy's pulled on a couple of layers, a baggy hoodie, but according to trajectories in Southeast Asia, that doesn't stay true for long.

Until the CDC figures this shit out — and they'd run every test on him that they could think of, sent his blood off for extensive lab work that could take weeks to come back — he has strict orders not to show his face in public. Something about not wanting to _needlessly alarm the general populace_ , a line straight out of a disaster film. He can see the headlines already: Thomas Frederick Vietor IV, patient zero. "Sorry, bud," Ben said, sympathetic, when he sent Tommy home to pack after Air Force One landed at Andrews. "You'll have to telecommute for a while. Hopefully this will all blow over soon enough."

Tommy has no idea how he's supposed to even nominally fulfill his role as NSC spokesperson when he's not allowed to speak to people, or even leave the damn house, but at least he can still check his email. Maybe lying low means he can catch up on some reading, too.

And he's cohabited with Jon before, so that's nothing new; if Tommy squints and tilts his head, it's almost like old times, sleeping on shitty mattresses at the flophouse in Lincoln Circle, flipping through channels on the couch together. How bad could this be?

 

 

By day seven, Tommy feels like he's losing his mind.

For one, his wings keep getting bigger and fucking with his balance. On Friday morning, three days ago, he'd woken up on the couch on his side, one wing popped up and hanging over his head, shading his face from the sun slanting in through the blinds. It'd taken him half an hour to figure out how to retract it, fold it back against his spine so he wasn't knocking shit over every time he turned around. Now, when he stands, it almost feels like he's constantly wearing a backpack that gets a little heavier each day, a couple more books worth of weight pulling him off-center.

He also keeps shedding, which Jon seems to find delightful for reasons beyond comprehension. "They're just feathers," Tommy grumbled on Sunday night, when he'd finally finished sweeping up all the feathers that had collected in the cracks in the living room sofa and around the coffee table, only to find that he'd molted an entire new round. "It's like when you have a dog or a cat and all your shit gets covered in fur."

"I dunno," Jon said, waving one feather in the air. The fresh, longer feathers that had started growing in weren't white anymore so much as they were a pale gray, almost silver, glossy in the light. "I think these are kind of pretty."

"Thanks," Tommy replied, dry. "I'll try to remember that when I've completed my transformation into a bird-man." He inhaled sharply when Jon slid the edge of the vane against his face, twisting the hollow shaft of the feather between his fingers. "I don't think the CDC would be happy to see you, like, fondling one of those. What if it's contagious?"

"None of the other guys you were with overseas have suddenly sprouted wings," Jon pointed out, which was true, but none of them had gone out of their way to sniff at the feathers Tommy was shedding, either. "Maybe I'll make this into a quill. Start going old-school on drafts with the President."

Tommy couldn't stop his face from flooding with heat, so he hid it behind a glass of water. "Creative," he said. If Jon noticed his flush, he didn't say anything about it, and for that, at least, Tommy was grateful.

It's Monday night now, a week since his house arrest began, and it hadn't occurred to Tommy how much he would miss the outdoors until he was expressly forbidden from venturing outside the 750 square feet of Jon's swanky co-op. "I never thought I'd say this," he says, when Jon comes back home with an eight-pack of Sam Adams to find Tommy grimly doing shirtless push-ups on the floor, every single one making the wings on his back ruffle. "But I might be sick of reading."

"Only took you seven days, huh," Jon says, smirking, and Tommy kicks half-heartedly at his feet before dropping onto his stomach and pressing his cheek flat against the cool floorboards. Jon slides the beer onto the coffee table and plops down on the couch, toes flexing in his socks. "Hey," he says, softer. "I'm sorry. I know it sucks. I can — I don't know. We can hang out. Put on the Celtics game, kick back and relax. I'll ask you questions about national security that you definitely can't answer. It'll be great."

Tommy grimaces. It's not like he can complain about being stuck indoors to anyone else but Jon, but that's unfair. It's almost SOTU season, and he's seen how tired Jon's been when he gets home in the evenings, how the shadows beneath his eyes have gotten deeper. Jon's already had to lie and pretend he's dealing with a virulent case of bedbugs to prevent anyone else from coming over. Tommy doesn't need to saddle Jon with even more shit, and he certainly doesn't need Jon to babysit him into feeling better. "I'll be fine," he says, propping himself up on an elbow. "I'm sure you'd much rather be hitting up the Georgetown bars after a long week."

Jon snorts. "Nah."

Tommy raises his eyebrows. "Nah?"

"Come on, Tommy," Jon says, grinning. "You know there's no one I'd rather play shirtless flipcup with than you."

"Oh, go to hell," Tommy says, but he can't help smiling when Jon tosses his head back and laughs.

 

 

His contact at the CDC, Dr. Kim Reaves, emails him on Wednesday with his preliminary blood work results, along with some information they've received from WHO officials studying the phenomenon. It's hard to see any abnormalities in the blood work on its face; the high cholesterol reading is a little worrying, but Tommy's been told it runs in the family, so there's not a lot he can do about it, and he's pretty sure it's unrelated to the wings, anyway.

He does get a call from Dr. Reaves later on in the day. "It looks like some of the patients the specialists in Singapore have been tracking since September have finally molted their wings off entirely," she says. It means that there does appear to be a natural end date to this whole debacle, but also — 

"It's almost December. Are you saying it took _months_ for them to go away?" Tommy swallows thickly, trying to imagine having to stay holed up through the holidays and beyond. "Jon's apartment is nice, but I really don't think I can handle being trapped in here for that long."

"We're looking into alternative reports coming in from the Philippines," she says. "I'm sorry, Tommy. Hang tight, alright? The minute I hear something, I'll give you a call."

"Yeah," Tommy says, exhaling slowly. "Thanks, Kim."

Even more than going stir crazy inside Jon's house, it sucks that he has to lie to people about where he actually is. _Lovett was bummed you couldn't make it to lunch_ , Cody sends him on Friday, when Tommy's doing crunches on the floor of the living room with his wings spread flat all the way out. The Cooking Channel's playing in the background; Tommy's gotten really good at frying the perfect egg in the past ten days. If nothing else, his culinary skills have taken a positive turn.

Two seconds later he gets a text from the man himself: _too important to make time for a mere hollywood writer now, huh. i've barely been gone three months and this is how you treat me?_

 _I'll make it up to you, Lovett_ , Tommy returns, rolling up off the floor and nearly pitching into the wall when his wings catch against the air. Fuck.

 _i'll believe it when i see it, big guy_ , Lovett sends back, and attaches a photo of everyone gathered around the table at Ruby Tuesday, the speechwriting cabal with Alyssa and Ben and Dan, cheesing for the camera. Something in Tommy's chest twists when his eyes catch on Jon, grinning, his arms tossed over Lovett and Cody's shoulders. Maybe it's just that Jon's the only person he's interacted with in almost ten days; of course Tommy's getting too attached, a Pavlovian response to seeing his face, the same rush of fondness and gratitude he feels whenever Jon walks in the door after a long day.

 

 

Two weeks into the wing ordeal, after a nightmare delivery scenario where the Mexican place three blocks down not only took an hour to finally bring them their food, but also got their order completely wrong, Tommy starts having groceries delivered to Jon's house. He figures — if Jon's going to martyr himself and sacrifice his social life to keep Tommy company during his convalescence, he might as well get a nice, wholesome home-cooked meal out of it.

"Tom," Jon says, blinking at the table settings on the kitchen island when he finally gets back on Monday night. "What's all this?"

"Sorry," Tommy says reflexively, hand tightening around the neck of the bottle of red he'd ordered with the fresh produce. He feels self-conscious all of a sudden, in a too-loose t-shirt with the shoulders cut out so the wings can dangle and breathe, wine in one hand and spatula in the other, the salmon he'd baked gently steaming on the dishes he set out. "I — uh, is it too much? I thought I'd actually put the hours of Food Network shows I've been watching to good use."

Jon's entire body ripples with his laugh. He shakes his head as he drops his bag on the sofa and walks over to inspect the fish. "No, I just — wasn't expecting it, that's all. It smells really good." He eyes the sauteed spinach and mashed potatoes approvingly. "I'm, uh, glad my pots and pans aren't just collecting dust in the oven anymore."

"Keeps me busy," Tommy says breezily, and doesn't miss the way Jon frowns.

"Have you heard anything else from the CDC yet?"

"Nothing definitive," Tommy says. They sit down and dig into the food; the salmon's a little dry, but well-seasoned. That must count for something.

Jon's face lights up when he takes a bite of the fish and swallows. "Oh, shit," he says, staring down at his plate. "This is really good, Tommy."

"Alright, come on, you don't have to sound _that_ surprised," Tommy says, but he's grinning when Jon cuts himself another piece of salmon and slides it in his mouth. "Look — you've been letting me crash here for two weeks now, and I've obviously been cutting into your extracurricular activities. Consider it a heartfelt thank you."

Jon shrugs it off, like he always does. "Keep this up and I might just keep you around," he says, and it's a joke, Tommy knows, but he can't help the way something warm and pleasant spreads in his stomach. _Stupid_ , he thinks, and busies himself with pouring them both generous portions of wine.

The truth is: in some ways, two weeks of forced bed rest and mandated time away from the trappings of DC's political machinations have been good for him. Despite not being able to sleep comfortably on his back and the fact that Tommy's pretty sure he's gotten even paler from lack of exposure to direct sunlight, this is the most well-rested he's felt since — God, he doesn't even remember. He's eating better; he's working out more. Last week, Jon had somehow managed to smuggle Tommy's guitar from 1309 under Cody and Michael's noses, and he's finally had time to pluck at it for the first time in months.

If his heart does something funny every time Jon smiles at him, compliments his food, regales him with the latest story cycling through the EEOB, well — that's something Tommy just has to live with for now. When he moves out again, he won't have to think about it anymore. Once all of this is over, they can go back to normal.

 

 

He gets another call from Dr. Reaves that Friday. The first few minutes involve a status update: no, he's not molting at the same pace he was before, yes, the feathers are still a light, glossy gray, no, he hasn't had a chance to measure himself but he'd estimate his wingspan to be about four feet, now.

"I try not to stretch them out very much," he admits.

"Have you been feeling any soreness?" she asks.

"No, no, nothing like that," Tommy says hastily. It's the truth, but part of him is also a little scared that admitting any discomfort will make the authorities haul him to a hospital again and keep him there. Here, at least, he has access to Wifi and a nice view of the skyline. _And Jon_ , his traitorous brain offers. He shakes the thought away.

"Okay, that's good." He hears a rustle of paper over the line. "So, quick update for you — we've been getting scattered reports that a certain mixture of endorphins can cause the wings to molt off prematurely."

"Endorphins," Tommy repeats, brow wrinkling. "What, so if I work out a lot, that'll solve the problem?"

"Maybe," she says, and coughs delicately. "Listen, Tommy, I don't want to give you false hope or anything. These are just unconfirmed rumors."

"I'll take anything at this point," he says, trying not to sound too desperate.

"Well," Dr. Reaves says, drawing the vowel out. "There are other ways to make your endorphins spike. Some people have reported premature molting after, ah, sexual activity."

"Oh," Tommy says, and feels himself flush.

"Yes," she says, coughing again. "I thought I'd give you a heads up on what I've been hearing. I know the cabin fever's been real."

"No, of course," Tommy says, palming the back of his neck. "I appreciate it."

 

 

It's not like Tommy hasn't thought idly about jerking off over the past few weeks; he's been too preoccupied with other, newer, more intrusive parts of his body to give his dick more than a passing thought. In the shower, the wings are unwieldy enough that masturbation isn't really an option. At night, on the couch, the knowledge that Jon is just a flimsy wall away usually takes most of the wind out of his sails.

Now, though, it's all he can think about. At this point, it's hard to figure out a way to rest comfortably against his back, so he's on his knees in the bathtub, hot water lapping at waist level, the lower tips of his wings dragging through it.

The feathers usually take forever to dry, so Tommy's been trying not to get them wet; the first time he made that mistake, Jon had to go out and buy a heavy-duty blow dryer so Tommy would stop dripping all over the floorboards. If this works, though, the point is moot. Might as well give it a try.

It doesn't take long to get hard. He's not thinking about much in particular, eyes closed, trying to just focus on the hand on his dick, when it feels like the wings start fucking _vibrating_.

"What the hell," Tommy says, jerking half upright, splashing water out of the tub. He twists his head to look at one wingtip over his shoulder; it doesn't seem any different, but the wings are starting to feel too warm, and his shoulder blades itch. Tommy grits his teeth and slides his hand up to play with the tip of his cock, rubbing a thumb along the vein beneath the head, and hisses when his wings jolt again, thrumming, like they're coming alive. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches behind himself and presses two fingers against the hottest part of his skin where the wings have sprouted out.

He comes on a loud groan, surprising himself, the water clouding beneath him. He hadn't expected the wings to be so sensitive, but he's here now, can feel them still twitching behind him, water weighing them down. It takes him a while to catch his breath. After, he scrubs his skin with soap, rinses off, and climbs out of the tub, pulls the plug to let it drain out before staggering in front of the mirror.

The wings are, stubbornly, still there. If Tommy's being honest with himself, he thought they might be. _Sexual activity_ , Dr. Reaves said, and she hadn't mentioned how long after the molting would take place, but there had been a definite implication that a partner be involved.

There's really only one other possibility, then, but Tommy doesn't really want to consider that. Jon's the type of person who lets a friend crash in his one-bedroom apartment rent-free; he'd probably sleep with Tommy in a heartbeat if he thought it would help with Tommy's feather-related problems. Tommy knows himself well enough by now that there's no question that a duty-fuck from Jon Favreau is the exact opposite of what he wants. He'd almost rather just wait it out.

Once the tub's finished draining, he pulls his sweatpants on, grabs two towels from the closet in the bathroom and trudges into the living room again, lays them out on the ground next to the coffee table so he can lie down on his stomach and let the wings air-dry. He's been spending a lot of time on the floor, lately; what's a little more?

 

 

He must doze off, because the next thing he registers is the sound of the door unlocking, swinging open and shut, and then footsteps. Tommy looks up, mind fuzzy from sleep, to see Jon smiling down at him, shaking his head. "Couch wasn't comfortable enough, huh," he says, and laughs when Tommy groans and scrubs at his face with his hands.

"Man," Tommy mumbles. "I was gonna cook steaks for dinner tonight, but I fell asleep. My bad."

He feels all stiff along his left side from passing out on the floor; he stretches his toes out, and his arms too, fingers locking as he tries to work the kinks from his body.

He hears Jon inhale sharply, and when he turns his head to ask, "What?" Jon's crouched down next to him, a strange expression on his face. One of his hands is hovering over Tommy's shoulder, not touching, but close enough that Tommy can feel the warmth from his palm.

It's not hard to figure out why. Tommy's wings have fully unfurled without his permission, stretching along with the rest of him. He has to admit that they do look kind of impressive, spread almost as long as Tommy is tall, now. "Can I?" Jon asks quietly.

Tommy could say no. He'd be well within his rights to, and Jon would drop it and move on, because he's a good friend who respects people's boundaries. They could brush all of this aside and flip to TNT for the evening, but something about the look on Jon's face, open and curious and a little nervous — something about the conversation with Dr. Reaves this afternoon still swirling around in his head — makes Tommy suppress a shudder, bite his lip, and nod instead.

Jon's hand brushes between Tommy's shoulder blades first, palming the hot skin before he pushes his fingers into the pale feathers, stroking up the spine of one wing. It feels — fucking phenomenal, actually, and Tommy arches into the warm pressure, can't help himself. He's starting to get a little hard again in his sweatpants, which is mortifying. At least Jon can't see his dick when he's lying on his stomach like this.

"You think you could fly if these got big enough?" Jon asks, tilting his head. His other hand brushes down the primary feathers at the bottom of Tommy's left wing before it curls up beneath the flat part, sinking into the soft, downy feathers closer to his shoulder blade.

"What?" Tommy says, trying not to squirm too much. "Come on, don't be ridiculous."

Jon's expression turns plaintive. "I'm being serious!"

"I don't know," Tommy says. He digs the fingers of his left hand into his right wrist to keep from doing anything dumb. It's difficult to concentrate when Jon's basically brushing him down, giving him a weird wing massage, but at least Tommy can focus on the pinpricks of his nails biting into his skin. "Maybe."

"It could be cool." Jon's eyes crinkle. "As long as you don't leave me behind here on the ground."

Tommy huffs against the floorboards. "Of course not," he says, feeling his cheeks warm, and shakes his head. "Anyway, I hope they aren't around for that long. Your apartment's nice, but I really hate being cooped up in here."

"Ha, cooped up," Jon says absently, the corner of his mouth curling, and Tommy rolls his eyes.

"No pun intended," he says, dry, and then Jon's fingers press into sinew, where Tommy's wing meets his back, and Tommy can't swallow his groan fast enough.

Jon's eyes go wide, hands stilling against Tommy's feathers. "Sorry," Jon says, hushed, mouth twisting with concern. "Shit, Tom. Did I hurt you?"

"No," Tommy says, feeling himself flush in response. "No — it, uh. It felt good."

"Oh," Jon says, blinking. Slowly, cautiously, he pushes his fingers against the sinewy part of Tommy's wing again, mouth dropping open a little as Tommy's feathers rustle. He lets it happen for longer than necessary, the muscles in his back flexing, before he pushes himself off the floor with effort, nearly knocks a picture frame over as he twists upright, trying to regulate his breathing. Jon tracks his movements, brow furrowed. "Tommy?"

Tommy grinds his teeth, counts backward from twenty, and manages to retract his wings, fold them up against his spine, the stiff peaks resting against the back of his head. Jon watches them go; he doesn't look repulsed, which is something. He seems — kind of awed, honestly. Tommy would entertain it more if Jon looking at him like that didn't make him feel like he was about to shake apart. "Are you hungry?" he says, after a long moment of heavy silence. "We should make dinner."

Jon's eyes roam over his face, throat working, and he scrubs his palm across his five o'clock shadow. "I could eat," he says, shrugging, and reaches out to help Tommy to his feet.

 

 

Tommy drinks more wine with his steak than is probably wise. Even so, they're uncharacteristically quiet through dinner. Tommy's known Jon long enough by now that he can tell when he's too tired from a week's worth of work for idle chatter, but this isn't that. This is Jon working through something in his head, reticent and thoughtful; when he got like this on the campaign trail back in the day, he'd disappear for hours on end and come back wild-eyed and overcaffeinated, the draft of a speech in hand.

The holding pattern doesn't break until they're washing dishes in the kitchen together, Tommy sponging plates and passing them over for Jon to rinse and dry. "I was talking to Steve from the NIH this afternoon," Jon starts, leaning his hip against the counter, playing with the damp paper towel in his hand. "Have you spoken to Kim Reaves lately?"

"She just called today," Tommy says, fingers curling around the stem of a wine glass. "Why?"

He feels Jon shrug next to him. Tommy's wings rustle half-open; almost three weeks, and they're still unpredictable as hell. "I don't know what you've heard," Jon says slowly, "but Steve said there were some rumors that it might be a sex thing."

"Yeah," Tommy says, letting out a gust of breath. He scrapes the edge of the wine glass with his fingernail, trying to get a bit of gunk off the rim. "Kim said the same thing." Jon doesn't immediately react, and Tommy barrels on, can't quite stop himself. "I, uh, tried jerking off today, but it didn't really work, so they're probably just rumors. No big deal."

Jon makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and twists the sink's spigot off. Tommy should turn around to look at him, but he can't seem to get his body to obey; his ears are ringing, the tips too hot. Jon reaches over to ease the wine glass out of Tommy's nerveless fingers, finishes wiping it off, and then, even slower, slides one hand up against the strap of the tank shirt Tommy had thrown on before cooking, earlier. His thumb is centimeters away from the joint of Tommy's right wing.

"Can I?" Jon asks again. The tenor of his voice is deeper this time, more intent.

"Yeah," Tommy says, voice cracking, and can't smother the shiver that runs through him when Jon strokes his feathers, palms the rounded peak.

"I—" Jon says. When Tommy finally glances sideways at him, Jon's face is pink. "If you need someone to help you out, I can do it. I could — if you need someone to sleep with you—"

"You don't have to do that for me," Tommy says, even as his wings stretch out wider to make room for Jon's hand. "I've already been imposing just by living here, you don't have to—"

"I want to," Jon interrupts. "Tommy — I want to help. Let me help."

"Shit," Tommy says. His eyes flutter and his dick stirs in his sweatpants as Jon's hand slides beneath the wing again, cups the sinewy joint. "Jon," he says, throaty, and finally manages to turn fully, face Jon head on as his hand drops. Tommy already wants it back.

"Tommy," Jon returns, the corner of his mouth lifting into a tremulous smile. "Let me?"

If Tommy were a better person, if he hadn't guzzled three glasses of wine with dinner, if he hadn't been walking down this path with Jon since 2005, hadn't once turned to look at Jon across an office or a cubicle or a cramped van on the campaign trail and thought _maybe_ , thought _if the chance ever came up, if he ever asked_ — he'd say no. He'd let Jon stay firmly in the category of friends he's never slept with and just try his best to ride this thing out till the bitter end.

Tommy isn't a better person, though — he isn't any of those things, and Jon's looking at him, eyes shining, mouth parted, like he's just waiting for the word, just waiting for permission.

"Okay," he says, and gasps when Jon surges forward to kiss him, their teeth clacking together in his haste, Jon's hands coming up behind Tommy to sink into the soft folds of his wings. Tommy gets hard so quickly that it would be comical if he wasn't so turned on; his head is spinning already and all Jon's done is slide his tongue against the roof of Tommy's mouth, palms warm against Tommy's shoulder blades.

Tommy's hands land on Jon's chest, slide up to cup his neck and pull him closer. That makes Jon groan, sweet and pretty, and then he's turning to pin Tommy to the sink counter, sliding a leg between Tommy's thighs, hip brushing against the tent at Tommy's crotch.

"Fuck," he says, panting against Jon's mouth. They stay like that for a long moment, delicious pressure against Tommy's dick and the inside of his mouth, and then Jon's pulling them away, out of the kitchen and across the hall to his bedroom. Jon laughs when one of Tommy's wing knocks a lampshade in the living room, laughs again when he looks up from stripping his pants off to see Tommy tangled in his tank shirt, arms trapped above his head, one wing-tip flipped up in the fabric. "Are you gonna help or not?" Tommy huffs, and Jon tilts his head, assessing.

"I kinda like you like this," Jon offers, grinning when Tommy scowls. "C'mere," he says, placating, and reaches up to ease the shirt off the rest of the way. He ducks in to kiss Tommy again as he drops the shirt on the ground, the press of his mouth softer this time.

Tommy's tried not to think much about what kissing Jon would be like, but he knows now. He's never gonna be able to erase that knowledge after tonight, nor the image of what Jon looks like naked and hard, nor the sound Jon makes when Tommy reaches down to touch him. Once they climb onto the bed, Tommy on all fours glancing over his shoulder as Jon slides a condom on and pumps lotion into his hand, it's too easy to get lost in the haze of arousal, in the heavy weight of his dick between his legs, the way his wings tremble and sway in the air as Jon pushes one finger inside him.

"Tommy, you have to tell me if it's too much," Jon says, voice tight, but Tommy's already rocking back into it, every nerve in his body vibrating with energy. He makes a punched-out sound when Jon reaches up with his other hand to grip one of his wings for leverage, and he doesn't realize, until Jon's two fingers and two knuckles deep, that all he's saying, over and over again, is _please_ and _Jon_ and _more_. He'd be more embarrassed if he didn't feel so desperate, head cradled in his arms, face pressed into Jon's sheets, gasping against the soft linen.

"Jon," he murmurs, "I'm — you have to — please," and Jon leans down to press a kiss neatly between Tommy's shoulder blades, slides in until his hips are pressed flush against Tommy's ass, fucked in so deep that Tommy can feel it everywhere, filling him up, and then there are no more words for a while.

 

 

Tommy wakes up on his back, staring up at the ceiling in Jon's room. It takes him a moment to realize why that seems so novel, and then it clicks, and he's suddenly wide awake.

Jon's still deep in his REM cycle next to him, burrowed underneath a mountain of sheets, drooling a little into his pillow. Tommy's chest pulses tender and raw just looking at him, which is exactly what he was afraid of.

He feels light as a feather — ha- _ha_ — when he manages to extract himself from the bed. He gropes around to feel his shoulders. They're smooth, the skin unbroken, nothing sticking out.

Well, then. That's that. He takes a minute to exhale, long and slow, before glancing at the bed again. There's a mound of the molted feathers on the side of the mattress Tommy had been sleeping on. He'd try to do a little cleaning before leaving, but the vacuum he's been using would definitely wake Jon up, and he's trying to be as discreet as possible.

There are words for what Tommy's doing (running away), and what Tommy is (a fucking coward), but put him in the same scenario a hundred times over, and he'd make the same choices every time. He contemplates leaving a note, but what would he even say? _Thanks for letting me live with you during this difficult and strange time in my life, and also for boning my extraneous appendages away. See you at work on Monday!_

No fucking way. The only viable option is to move forward.

For someone who's been crashing at Jon's place for almost three weeks, it takes very little time to gather all his things and throw them in his duffel. Then again, Tommy's always been frighteningly efficient when he needs to be.

He takes one last look over his shoulder at the Obama art on the walls, the fruit bowl on the coffee table, the pillow and blanket folded over the arm of Jon's couch, and then hefts his guitar case in one hand and his duffel bag in the other. The door clicks shut behind him.

 

 

The dawn light is just cresting over the horizon when he gets down to the street. Tommy takes a minute to breathe in the crisp smell of the December air, knifing cold and sharp in his chest. It's freezing out here, but something about being outside after so long makes him feel better, anyway. Turns out Vitamin D is good for you. Who knew?

It takes twenty minutes to walk back to 1309 with all his stuff, trudging up 16th Street and northwest on Florida, guitar case knocking against his legs It's barely six in the morning, so no one else in the house is awake yet when he lets himself in. The dishes in the sink are overflowing, and so is the trash, bags of it piled next to the back door. Tommy should be annoyed, but he mostly feels relieved. Some things, at least, will always stay the same.

He dumps his crap in his room and shoots off a quick email on his Blackberry, CC'd to all relevant parties, about the situation having resolved itself. Technically Tommy should probably have waited for a go-ahead to leave, but the whole root of the problem, the reason he'd been stuck in the gilded cage of Jon's apartment in the first place — that's all over and done with. He's been pacing the same floor of the Chastleton co-op for the past twenty days; there was no way he was going to stay indoors for longer than absolutely necessary.

And — in all honesty, Tommy also hadn't wanted to stick around to see Jon's sympathetic face, hadn't wanted the full Jon Favreau morning after experience. Hadn't wanted to be let down easy. Jon would've been so _nice_ about it, is the thing. It's the way he is about everything, and Tommy doesn't want nice.

Tommy wants a lot of things he can't have, but some of his immediate desires are actually attainable. His shoulders itch when he shrugs out of his heavy winter clothes into something he can run in. It's going to take a while for him to get used to his restored balance; he keeps finding himself pitching forward too far, trying to counterbalance for weight that isn't there anymore, but that helps him jog, at least. The sun's just starting to come up past the roofs and treetops when he hits the pavement. He runs for longer than he normally does, circling north instead of the loop south that he usually takes, the route that leads him past Jon's apartment building. He ignores the strange tug in his stomach that tries to pull him there.

Despite everything, it feels good. Feels good to stretch his legs, feels good to smile and nod at the other scattered early birds he passes on the street, feels good to modulate his breathing and suck water out of his arm-strap bottle. The crisp winter wind brushes right through him.

He has a couple of missed calls on his work phone when he gets back to the house again with coffee, having sweat clean through his shirt. Tommy leans against the kitchen counter and flips through his messages, and then calls Dr. Reaves. She picks up on the second ring. "Tommy," she says, voice warm. "I take it everything seems to be in working order?"

"As far as I can tell."

"Good," she says, with the tone of someone who wants to know as little about the details as possible, but is probably going to have to ask anyway. For science, or whatever. "Can you stop by some time this week? I'll send you the details. We just want to run some exit tests."

"Of course," Tommy says. "See you soon."

He's sipping at his coffee and eyeing the stack of dirty dishes when Cody stumbles out of his room. He does a comical double take when he sees Tommy. "Oh, hey, welcome back, man," he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

"Good to be home," Tommy says, casting a dry glance at the sink.

Cody at least has the manners to look kind of chagrined. "I'll, uh, deal with that in a minute," he says. He slides over to clap Tommy's shoulder, somehow misses the way Tommy flinches. "Ben kept saying you were on some super secret mission, so I'm not gonna ask, but we should definitely go out tonight. Invite everybody."

Everybody would definitely include Jon. Tommy hasn't checked his personal phone yet, but he's going to have to deal with it at some point. Not today, though — today he's going to rest, and maybe go out for another run in the afternoon just because he can. He makes some excuse about being jetlagged that Cody accepts with an easy shrug. "Friday, maybe," Tommy allows, "and only if you run the damn dishwasher before then."

"Deal," Cody says, grinning.

 

 

On Sunday, Tommy rolls over to phantom weight pressing down on his shoulders and a voicemail from Jon. He takes a long, luxurious shower before listening to it over breakfast, some funny anecdote about how Jon had woken up yesterday and thought for a single, heart-stopping second that Tommy had fully turned into a pile of feathers, before he realized how crazy an idea that was. The sound of his voice makes Tommy's chest ache. Stupid.

"I guess equally as crazy as growing wings in the first place," Jon says, and Tommy can see, in his mind's eye, the sheepish twist of Jon's mouth as he says it. "Anyway, you could've—" He cuts himself off, here, like he isn't sure how to continue the thought, and just ends with, "Let me know if you're okay. My pots and pans miss you."

 _I'm fine_ , Tommy types into their text message chain. _Thanks for letting me stay over._

Jon doesn't come find him. Tommy aggressively doesn't feel any type of way about it. He already made his choice.

 

 

It turns out to be a busy week at work, but every week since 2009 has been busy as hell, so that's nothing new.

Tommy's fine with it. Putting out fires and trying not to start new ones helps him focus his pent-up energy somewhere, throw himself back into the thick of it. He has to hit the ground running, anyway; on Tuesday they have to draft five different responses to a NATO attack in Pakistan, and he doesn't get back to the house until midnight.

The CDC gives him a clean bill of health on Thursday afternoon, and by the time EOB Friday rolls around, Tommy's largely forgotten the way wings feel on his back, gotten used to not having to check and make sure he's not going to knock something over every time he stands up from his desk. The world turns on. 

There's a knock on the door to the office as Tommy's wrapping up one last email to the press pool before the weekend. When he looks up, Jon's bundled up in his coat, leaned against the frame, smiling faintly at him.

"Hey," he says, making a show of scanning the rest of the empty office. "Cody told me to come kidnap you for drinks at Bullfeathers."

Tommy groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. God. Happy hour. Of course. "Right," he says, shaking his head. "Totally slipped my mind. He didn't wanna do the deed himself?"

"I'm more convincing, apparently," Jon says, shrugging. "I had something for you, anyway."

"Oh," Tommy says, and watches Jon shuffle forward, digging through his messenger bag. "Did I leave something at your house?"

"Kind of," Jon says, and proceeds to deposit a handful of feathers on his desk. "I vacuumed all over the apartment, but I keep finding feathers everywhere," he continues casually, when Tommy stares up at him. "I was thinking I could maybe get them stuffed in a pillow. Commemorate our time together."

Tommy pushes his knuckles against his eyes and groans louder this time. "Look, I'm sorry I just left on Saturday morning," he mumbles. "I should've said something, and I can pay for somebody to come by the house and deep clean—"

"That's not," Jon interrupts, sounding a little frustrated. "That's not what I meant. I don't need an apology." When Tommy looks up, Jon shrugs again, gaze dropping from Tommy's face to his shoulders. Tommy hunches reflexively, even though there are no wings to retract anymore, even though everything should be perfectly normal. "Can we just talk about this?"

"Talk about what?" Tommy says, and hates the way his voice breaks.

"Come on, Tom," Jon says, eyebrows knitting together as he frowns. "I keep having to pinch my arm to remind myself that the past three weeks weren't just some kind of wild ayahuasca-induced fever dream. I don't need you to gaslight me about it, too."

"No, sorry, I know." Tommy takes a deep breath, exhales again, stomach churning. "Listen, I appreciate everything you did. You really went above and beyond the call of duty with — how you helped, but if you have a wing fetish now, I can't help you." He tries to make it a joke at the end, but it doesn't come out quite right. It sounds too honest.

Jon blinks down at him, one hand still clenched loosely around a single feather. "I didn't do it just because you needed help, Tommy," he says slowly. "I mean, I _did_ want to help, but I would've done it even if you didn't have wings." Tommy's mouth drops open, and Jon sets his chin. "I would do it again, if you — if you wanted to. I'd do a lot, for you."

"Jon," Tommy says, hushed.

"I should've told you before," he finishes, fingers twisting around the feather in his hand. "So I'm saying it now. In case it wasn't clear."

Tommy's shoulders are itching like crazy, and for a moment he's afraid that he's started molting again, round two of this nightmare, but he slides one hand against the flat of his back and it's still smooth. Okay. _Okay._ He stands abruptly, the pile of papers on his desk rustling as he walks around it, whole body buzzing. The details of last Friday night are still fuzzy in his mind, like he experienced it all through a gauzy plume of powder down, but he remembers the way Jon had slipped one hand up to tangle their fingers together when Tommy came, remembers how Jon's mouth felt pressed to the hot skin at the back of Tommy's neck, and thinks — _oh_.

Jon looks so hopeful standing in front of him. He's had a whole week to think about it, a whole week to stew over everything and change his mind, and he came to find Tommy anyway. They have places to be, but Tommy wants to linger here, stay in this moment, revel in the newness of being wanted back. Or — not newness, exactly, so much as it is feels like some part of their relationship has been shaded in with a richer color, or like —

Like something natural and beautiful and familiar has grown in to fill the gaps, locking into place. Jon's looking at him the same way he looked at him almost four weeks ago and then stepped back to let him in the front door, the same way he's been looking at him for years, and Tommy feels like he could spread his arms out and fly.

"Your pots and pans miss me, huh," Tommy says, heart beating wildly in his throat as he reaches up to fit his palm to Jon's neck. This close, Jon has to tilt his face up to hold his gaze. "I guess I miss your pots and pans, too."

"Yeah?" Jon says, face creasing as he smiles. "They're still exactly where you left them."

"That's good. That's perfect." When Tommy leans in to kiss him, Jon reaches up to brush his hands against Tommy's shoulder blades, steady and firm. His fingers dig in to keep him close, held fast, anchored to the ground. "I'm not gonna fly away," Tommy murmurs against the press of Jon's mouth.

Jon laughs, a puff of breath across Tommy's lips. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Tommy says. "I'm sure."


End file.
